PS 

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RIP 

VAN WINKLE 




















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Book_ 1 n i 


Copyright ft?._l ° 2 . 

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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 

















RIP VAN WINKLE 


THE CHILDREN’S CLASSICS 

Each beautifully illustrated in color and tastefully bound 


BY JONATHAN SWIFT 
GULLIVER’S TRAVELS 
A VOYAGE TO THE LILLIPUT 

BY WASHINGTON IRVING 

RIP VAN WINKLE 

BY JOHN RUSKIN 

THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER 

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
A CHILD’S GARDEN OF VERSES 

SELECTED 

HANS ANDERSEN’S FAIRY TALES 
BY MISS MULOCK 

THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE 
THE ADVENTURES OF A BROWNIE 

SELECTED 

TALES OF WASHINGTON IRVING’S 
ALHAMBRA 

BY EMMA GELLIBRAND 

J. COLE 

BY JOHANNA SPYRI 
MONI THE GOAT BOY 
BY OUIDA 

MOUFFLOU AND OTHER STORIES 
THE NURNBERG STOVE 
A DOG OF FLANDERS 

6ELECTED 

WONDERLAND STORIES 
ALL TIME TALES 

BY GEORGE MACDONALD 

THE PRINCESS AND THE GOBLIN 
THE PRINCESS AND CURDIE 
AT THE BACK OF THE NORTH WIND 









A Troop of Strange Children Ran at His Heels 


Page 4 7 























VlP VAN WINKLE^ 

A LEGEND OF THE KAATSKILL 
MOUNTAINS 


BY 


WASHINGTON IRVING 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR BY 
EDNA COOKE 


AND IN LINE BY 
FELIX O. C. DARLEY / 



PHILADELPHIA & LONDON 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
& _^ 


eojo y 








'PS 

.At 

cop y z. 

ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 


/ 


PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS 
PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A. 


©C1A760724 


OCT 25 1923 


r\ 


£ 


2 X/2 ht rj -Ol/ 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

A Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker. 13 

Rip Van Winkle. 17 

Note. 65 

Postscript.67 

/ 


















ILLUSTRATIONS IN LINE 


PAGE 


Rip and the Children. 19 

The Lecture. 27 

The Politicians. 31 

Rip and the Dog. 45 

The Story. 63 


Washington Irving at Sunnyside 


70 










ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR 


PAGB 


A Troop of Strange Children Ran at His Heels... .Frontispiece 
He Told Them Long Stories of Ghosts, Witches, and Indians.. 22 

During the Whole Time, Rip and His Companion had Labored 
on in Silence. 38 

He Even Ventured, when No Eye was Fixed upon Him, to 
Taste the Beverage.41 




* 


RIP VAN WINKLE 




' 














• \ 


I 







♦ 



































By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 
Unto thylke day in which I creep into 
My sepulchre— 

Cartwright. 

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF 
DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER 

The following Tale was found among the 
papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an 
old gentleman of New York, who was very cu¬ 
rious in the Dutch history of the province, and 
the manners of the descendants from its primi¬ 
tive settlers. His historical researches, however, 
did not lie so much among books as among men; 
for the former are lamentably scanty on his 
favorite topics; whereas he found the old burgh¬ 
ers, and still more their wives, rich in that 
legendary lore, so invaluable to true history. 

13 


14 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine 
Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed 
farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he 
looked upon it as a little clasped volume of 
black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a 
bookworm. 

The result of all these researches was a history 
of the province during the reign of the Dutch 
governors, which he published some years since. 
There have been various opinions as to the 
literary character of his work, and, to tell the 
truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. 
Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which 
indeed was a little questioned on its first appear¬ 
ance, but has since been completely established; 
and it is now admitted into all historical collec¬ 
tions, as a book of unquestionable authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly after the pub¬ 
lication of his work, and now that he is dead and 
gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


15 


say, that his time might have been much better 
employed in weightier labors. He, however, was 
apt to ride his hobby his own way; and though 
it did now and then kick up the dust a little in 
the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit 
of some friends, for whom he felt the truest 
deference and affection; yet his errors and follies 
are remembered “more in sorrow than in anger,” 
and it begins to be suspected that he never in¬ 
tended to injure or offend. But however his 
memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still 
held dear by many folk whose good opinion is 
well worth having; particularly by certain bis¬ 
cuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint 
his likeness on their New-year cakes; and have 
thus given him a chance for immortality almost 
equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo 
Medal or a Queen Anne's Farthing. 


1 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson 
must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They 
are a dismembered branch of the great Appala¬ 
chian family, and are seen away to the west of 
the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lord¬ 
ing it over the surrounding country. Every 
change of season, every change of weather, 
indeed every hour of the day, produces some 
change in the magical hues and shapes of these 
mountains, and they are regarded by all the 
good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. 
When the weather is fair and settled, they are 
clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold 
outlines on the clear evening sky; but some¬ 
times, when the rest of the landscape is cloud¬ 
less, they will gather a hood of gray vapors 
about their summits, which, in the last rays of 


18 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


the setting sun, will glow and light up like a 
crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the 
voyager may have descried the light smoke curl¬ 
ing up from a village, whose shingle roofs gleam 
among the trees, just where the blue tints of the 
upland melt away into the fresh green of the 
nearer landscape. It is a little village, of great 
antiquity, having been founded by some of the 
Dutch colonists, in the early times of the prov¬ 
ince, just about the beginning of tlife govern¬ 
ment of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest 
in peace!), and there were some of the houses of 
the original settlers standing within a few years, 
built of small yellow bricks brought from Hol¬ 
land, having latticed windows and gable fronts, 
surmounted with weather-cocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very 
houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was 
sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there 



RIP AND THE CHILDREN 
















































RIP VAN WINKLE 


21 


lived many years since, while the country was 
yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good- 
natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. 
He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who 
figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of 
Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the 
siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, 
but little of the martial character of his ancestors. 
I have observed that he was a simple, good- 
natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, 
and an obedient hen-pecked husband. Indeed, 
to the latter circumstance might be owing that 
meekness of spirit which gained him such uni¬ 
versal popularity; for those men are most apt 
to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who 
are under the discipline of shrews at home. 
Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant 
and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic 
tribulation, and a curtain lecture is worth all the 
sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of 




RIP VAN WINKLE 


patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife 
may, therefore, in some respects, be considered 
a tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle 
was thrice blessed. 

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite 
among all the good wives of the: village, who, as 
usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all 
family squabbles; and never failed, whenever 
they talked those matters over in their evening 
gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van 
Winkle. The children of the village, too, would 
shout with joy whenever he approached. He 
assisted at their sports, made their playthings, 
taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and 
told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and 
Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the 
village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, 
hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, 
and playing a thousand tricks on him with 
impunity; and not a dog would bark at him 
throughout the neighborhood. 



He Told Them Long Stories of Ghosts, Witches, and Indians 








































RIP VAN WINKLE 


23 


The great error in Rip’s composition was an 
insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable 
labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity 
or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, 
with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar’s lance, 
and fish all day without a murmur, even though 
he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. 
He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder 
for hours together, trudging through woods and 
swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a 
few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never 
refuse to assist a neighbor even in the roughest 
toil, and was a foremost man at all country 
frolics for husking Indian com, or building stone 
fences; the women of the village, too, used to 
employ him to run their errands, and to do such 
little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands 
would not do for them. In a word, Rip was 
ready to attend to anybody’s business but his 
own; but as to doing family duty, and keeping 
his farm in order, he found it impossible. 


24 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on 
his farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of 
ground in the whole country; everything about 
it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of 
him. His fences were continually falling to 
pieces; his cow would either go astray, or get 
among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow 
quicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain 
always made a point of setting in just as he had 
some out-door work to do; so that though his 
patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his 
management, acre by acre, until there was little 
more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and 
potatoes, yet it was the worst-conditioned farm in 
the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as 
if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an 
urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to 
inherit the habits, with the old clothes, of his 
father. He was generally seen trooping like a 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


25 


colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of 
his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had 
much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine 
lady does her train in bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those 
happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, 
who take the world easy, eat white bread or 
brown, whichever can be got with least thought 
or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny 
than work for a pound. If left to himself, he 
would have whistled life away in perfect con¬ 
tentment; but his wife kept continually dinning 
in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and 
the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morn¬ 
ing, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly 
going, and everything he said or did was sure to 
produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip 
had but one way of replying to all lectures of the 
kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a 
habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his 


26 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, 
however, always provoked a fresh volley from 
his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, 
and take to the outside of the house—the only 
side which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked 
husband. 

Rip’s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, 
who was as much hen-pecked as his master; for 
Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions 
in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an 
evil eye, as the cause of his master’s going so 
often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit 
befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous 
an animal as ever scoured the woods—but what 
courage can withstand the ever-enduring and all- 
besetting terrors of a woman’s tongue? The 
moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his 
tail drooped to the ground or curled between his 
legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting 
many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, 























































































RIP VAN WINKLE 


29 


and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, 
he would fly to the door with yelping precipi¬ 
tation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van 
Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on; a tart 
temper never mellows with age, and a sharp 
tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener 
with constant use. For a long while he used to 
console himself, when driven from home, by 
frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, 
philosophers, and other idle personages of the 
village; which held its sessions on a bench before 
a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of 
His Majesty George the Third. Here they used 
to sit in the shade through a long, lazy summer’s 
day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or tell¬ 
ing endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it 
would have been worth any statesman’s money 
to have heard the profound discussions that 
sometimes took place when by chance an old 


30 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


newspaper fell into their hands from some pass¬ 
ing traveller. How solemnly they would listen to 
the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van 
Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper, learned 
little man, who was not to be daunted by the 
most gigantic word in the dictionary; and how 
sagely they would deliberate upon public events 
some months after they had taken place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely 
controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the 
village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of 
which he took his seat from morning till night, 
just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and 
keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the 
neighbors could tell the hour by his movements 
as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true, he was 
rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe inces¬ 
santly. His adherents, however (for every great 
man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, 
and knew how to gather his opinions. When any- 



THE POLITICIANS 
























RIP VAN WINKLE 


33 


thing that was read or related displeased him, he 
was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and 
to send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs; 
but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke 
slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and 
placid clouds; and sometimes, taking the pipe 
from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor 
curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head 
in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was 
at length routed by his termagant wife, who 
would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of 
the assemblage and call the members all to 
naught; nor was that august personage, Nicholas 
Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue 
of this terrible virago, who charged him outright 
with encouraging her husband in habits of 
idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to de¬ 
spair; and his only alternative, to escape from the 

3 


34 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was to 
take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. 
Here he would sometimes seat himself at the 
foot of a tree, and share the contents of his 
wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as 
a fellow-sufferer in persecution. “Poor Wolf,” 
he would say, “thy mistress leads thee a dog’s life 
of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou 
shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!” 
Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his 
master’s face, and if dogs can feel pity I verily 
believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all 
his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal 
day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of 
the highest parts of the Kaatskill mountains. He 
was after his favorite sport of squirrel-shooting, 
and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed 
with the reports of his gun. Panting and fa¬ 
tigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


35 


a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, 
that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an 
opening between the trees he could overlook all 
the lower country for many a mile of rich wood¬ 
land. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, 
far, far below him, moving on its silent but 
majestic course, with the reflection of a purple 
cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there 
sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing 
itself in the blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep 
mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the 
bottom filled with fragments from the impending 
cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of 
the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on 
this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the 
mountains began to throw their long blue shad¬ 
ows over the valleys; he saw that it would be 
dark long before he could reach the village, and 
he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of en¬ 
countering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 


36 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


As he was about to descend, he heard a voice 
from a distance hallooing, “Rip Van Winkle! 
Rip Van Winkle!” He looked round, but could 
see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight 
across the mountain. He thought his fancy 
must have deceived him, and turned again to 
descend, when he heard the same cry ring 
through the still evening air: “ Rip Van Winkle! 
Rip Van Winkle!”—at the same time Wolf 
bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, 
skulked to' his master’s side, looking fearfully 
down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague appre¬ 
hension stealing over him; he looked anxiously 
in the same direction, and perceived a strange 
figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending 
under the weight of something he carried on his 
back. He was surprised to see any human being 
in this lonely and unfrequented place, but sup¬ 
posing it to be some one of the neighborhood in 
need of his assistance, he hastened down to 
yield it. 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


37 


On nearer approach he was still more sur¬ 
prised at the singularity of the stranger’s appear¬ 
ance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, 
with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. 
His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion—a 
cloth jerkin strapped round the waist—several 
pairs of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, 
decorated with rows of buttons down the sides 
and bunches at the knees. He bore on his 
shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, 
and made signs for Rip to approach and assist 
him with the load. Though rather shy and dis¬ 
trustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied 
with his usual alacrity; and mutually relieving 
one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, 
apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. 
As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard 
long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that 
seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather 
cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their 


38 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


rugged path conducted. He paused for an in¬ 
stant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one 
of these transient thunder-showers which often 
take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. 
Passing through the ravine, they came to a 
hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded 
by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of 
which impending trees shot their branches, so 
that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky 
and the bright evening cloud. During the whole 
time, Rip and his companion had labored on in 
silence; for though the former marvelled greatly 
what could be the object of carrying a keg of 
liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was 
something strange and incomprehensible about 
the unknown, that inspired awe and checked 
familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of 
wonder presented themselves. On a level spot 
in the centre was a company of odd-looking 



During the Whole Time, Rip and His Companion had Labored on in Silence 




























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. 




• • 






















































































































































































































* 



















































. 



















RIP VAN WINKLE 


39 


personages playing at ninepins. They were 
dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; some 
wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long 
knives in their belts, and most of them had 
enormous breeches, of similar style with that of 
the guide’s. Their visages, too, were peculiar; 
one had a large beard, broad face, and small 
piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to con¬ 
sist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a 
white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red 
cock’s tail. They all had beards, of various 
shapes and colors. There was one who seemed 
to be the commander. He was a stout old gentle¬ 
man, with a weather-beaten countenance; he 
wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, 
high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and 
high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The 
whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old 
Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van 
Shaick, the village parson, and which had been 


40 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


brought over from Holland at the time of the 
settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, 
that though these folks were evidently amusing 
themselves, yet they maintained the gravest 
face, the most mysterious silence, and were, 
withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure 
he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the 
stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, 
which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along 
the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, 
they suddenly desisted from their play, and 
stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, 
and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre counte¬ 
nances, that his heart turned within him, and 
his knees smote together. His companion now 
emptied the contents of the keg into large flag¬ 
ons, and made signs to him to wait upon the 
company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; 



He Even Ventured, when No Eve was Fixed upon Him, to Taste the Beverage 




























RIP VAN WINKLE 


41 


they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and 
then returned to their game. 

By degrees Rip’s awe and apprehension sub¬ 
sided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed 
upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found 
had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He 
was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon 
tempted to repeat the draught. One taste pro¬ 
voked another; and he reiterated his visits to 
the flagon so often that at length his senses were 
overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his 
head gradually declined, and he fell into a 
deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green 
knoll whence he had first seen the old man of the 
glen. He rubbed his eyes—it was a bright sunny 
morning. The birds were hopping and twittering 
among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling 
aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. 
“Surely,” thought Rip, “I have not slept here 


42 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


all night. ” He recalled the occurrences before 
he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of 
liquor—the mountain ravine—the wild retreat 
among the rocks—the woebegone party at nine¬ 
pins—the flagon—“Oh! that flagon! that wicked 
flagon!” thought Rip—“what excuse shall I 
make to Dame Van Winkle?” 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of 
the clean, well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an 
old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted 
with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock 
worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave 
roysterers of the mountain had put a trick upon 
him, and having dosed him with liquor, had 
robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disap¬ 
peared, but he might have strayed away after a 
squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him and 
shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes 
repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was 
to be seen. 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


43 


He determined to revisit the scene of the last 
evening’s gambol, and if he met with any of the 
party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose 
to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and 
wanting in his usual acitivity. “These moun¬ 
tain beds do not agree with me,” thought Rip, 
“and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of 
the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time 
with Dame Van Winkle.” With some dif¬ 
ficulty he got down into the glen: he found the 
gully up which he and his companion had as¬ 
cended the preceding evening; but to his aston¬ 
ishment a mountain stream was now foaming 
down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling 
the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, 
made shift to scramble up its sides, working his 
toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassa¬ 
fras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped 
up or entangled by the wild grape-vines that 
twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, 
and spread a kind of network in his path. 


44 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


At length he reached to where the ravine had 
opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; 
but no traces of such opening remained. The 
rocks presented a high impenetrable wall, over 
which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of 
feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, 
black from the shadows of the surrounding 
forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a 
stand. He again called and whistled after his 
dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a 
flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a 
dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and 
who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look 
down and scoff at the poor man’s perplexities. 
What was to be done? The morning was passing 
away, and Rip felt famished for want of his 
breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and 
gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would 
not do to starve among the mountains. He 
shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, 





RIP AND THE DOG 











































RIP VAN WINKLE 


47 


and with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, 
turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village he met a number 
of people, but none whom he knew, which some¬ 
what surprised him, for he had thought himself 
acquainted with every one in the country round. 
Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from 
that to which he was accustomed. They all 
stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and 
whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invari¬ 
ably stroked their chins. The constant recur¬ 
rence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, 
to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he 
found his beard had grown a foot long! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. 
A troop of strange children ran at his heels, 
hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. 
The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for 
an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. 
The very village was altered; it was larger and 


48 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


more populous. There were rows of houses 
which he had never seen before, and those which 
had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. 
Strange names were over the doors—strange 
faces at the windows—everything was strange. 
His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt 
whether both he and the world around him were 
not bewitched. Surely this was his native vil¬ 
lage, which he had left but the day before. There 
stood the Kaatskill mountains—there ran the 
silver Hudson at a distance—there was every 
hill and dale precisely as it had always been— 
Rip was sorely perplexed—“That flagon last 
night,” thought he, “has addled my poor head 
sadly!” 

It was with some difficulty that he found the 
way to his own house, which he approached with 
silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the 
shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the 
house gone to decay—the roof fallen in, the win- 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


49 


dows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A 
half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulk¬ 
ing about it. Rip called him by name, but the 
cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. 
This was an unkind cut indeed—“my very 
dog,” sighed poor Rip, “has forgotten me!” 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, 
Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. 
It was empty, forlorn, and apparently aban¬ 
doned. This desolateness overcame all his con¬ 
nubial fears—he called loudly for his wife and 
children—the lonely chambers rang for a mo¬ 
ment with his voice, and then all again was 
silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old 
resort, the village inn—but it too was gone. A 
large rickety wooden building stood in its place, 
with great gaping windows, some of them broken 
and mended with old hats and petticoats, and 
over the door was painted, “The Union Hotel, 

4 


50 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


by Jonathan Doolittle.” Instead of the great 
tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch 
inn of yore, there now was reared a tall, naked 
pole, with something on the top that looked like 
a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, 
on which was a singular assemblage of stars and 
stripes—all this was strange and incomprehen¬ 
sible. He recognized on the sign, however, the 
ruby face of King George, under which he had 
smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even this 
was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat 
was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was 
held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head 
was decorated with a cocked hat, and under¬ 
neath was painted in large characters, General 
Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the 
door, but none that Rip recollected. The very 
character of the people seemed changed. There 
was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


51 


instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy 
tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage 
Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double 
chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of to¬ 
bacco smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van 
Bummel, the school-master, doling forth the 
contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of 
these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his 
pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehe¬ 
mently about rights of citizens—elections— 
members of Congress—liberty—Bunker ’s Hill — 
heroes of seventy-six—and other words, which 
were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewil¬ 
dered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled 
beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth 
dress, and an army of women and children at his 
heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern 
politicians. They crowded round him, eyeing 
him from head to foot with great curiosity. The 


52 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him 
partly aside, inquired “on which side he voted?” 
Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short 
but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, 
rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, “ whether he 
was Federal or Democrat?” Rip was equally at 
a loss to comprehend the question; when a know¬ 
ing, self-important old gentleman in a sharp 
cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, 
putting them to the right and left with his el¬ 
bows as he passed, and planting himself before 
Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other 
resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat 
penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, de¬ 
manded, in an austere tone, “what brought him 
to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a 
mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed 
a riot in the village?” “Alas! gentlemen,” cried 
Rip, somewhat dismayed, “I am a poor, quiet 
man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject 
of the king, God bless him!” 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


53 


Here a general shout burst from the bystanders 
—“A tory! a tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! 
away with him!” It was with great difficulty 
that the self-important man in the cocked hat 
restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold 
austerity of brow, demanded again of the un¬ 
known culprit, what he came there for, and 
whom he was seeking? The poor man humbly 
assured him that he meant no harm, but merely 
came there in search of some of his neighbors, 
who used to keep about the tavern. 

“ Well, who are they? Name them. ” 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and in¬ 
quired, “ Where's Nicholas Vedder?” 

There was a silence for a little while, when an 
old man replied, in a thin, piping voice, “ Nicho¬ 
las Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these 
eighteen years! There was a wooden tomb¬ 
stone in the churchyard that used to tell all 
about him, but that’s rotten and gone too.” 


54 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


“Where’s Brorri Dutcher?” 

“Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning 
of the war; some say he was killed at the storming 
of Stony Point—others say he was drowned in a 
squall at the foot of Antony’s Nose. I don’t 
know—he never came back again.” 

“Where’s Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?” 

“He went off to the wars, too, was a great 
militia general, and is now in Congress.” 

Rip’s heart died away at hearing of these sad 
changes in his home and friends, and finding 
himself thus alone in the world. Every answer 
puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous 
lapses of time, and of matters which he could 
not understand; war—Congress—Stony Point;— 
he had no courage to ask after any more friends, 
but cried out in despair, “Does nobody here 
know Rip Van Winkle?” 

“Oh, Rip Van Winkle!” exclaimed two or 
three, “Oh, to be sure! that’s Rip Van Winkle 
yonder, leaning against the tree.” 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


55 


Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart 
of himself, as he went up the mountain: appar¬ 
ently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor 
fellow was now completely confounded. He 
doubted his own identity, and whether he was 
himself or another man. In the midst of his 
bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat de¬ 
manded who he was, and what was his name? 

“God knows,” exclaimed he, at his wit’s end; 
“I’m not myself—I’m somebody else—that’s 
me yonder—no—that’s somebody else got into 
my shoes—I was myself last night, but I fell 
asleep on the mountain, and they’ve changed my 
gun, and everything’s changed, and I’m changed, 
and I can’t tell what’s my name, or who 
lam!” 

The bystanders began now to look at each 
other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their 
fingers against their foreheads. There was a 
whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keep- 


56 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


ing the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very 
suggestion of which the self-important man in 
the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. 
At this critical moment a fresh, comely woman 
pressed through the throng to get a peep at the 
gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in 
her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to 
cry. “Hush, Rip,” cried she, “hush, you little 
fool; the old man won't hurt you.” The name 
of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of 
her voice, all awakened a train of recollections 
in his mind. “What is your name, my good 
woman?” asked he. 

“Judith Gardenier.” 

“And your father's name?” 

“Ah! poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his 
name, but it's twenty years since he went away 
from home with his gun, and never has been 
heard of since—his dog came home without him; 
but whether he shot himself, or was carried 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


57 


away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was 
then but a little girl. ” 

Rip had but one question more to ask; but 
he put it with a faltering voice: 

“Where’s your mother?” 

“Oh, she too had died but a short time since; 
she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a 
New England peddler.” 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this 
intelligence. The honest man could contain 
himself no longer. He caught his daughter and 
her child in his arms. “I am your father!” cried 
he—“Young Rip Van Winkle once—old Rip 
Van Winkle now! Does nobody know poor 
Rip Van Winkle?” 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, totter¬ 
ing out from among the crowd, put her hand to 
her brow, and peering under it in his face for a 
moment, exclaimed, “Sure enough! it is Rip Van 
Winkle—it is himself! Welcome home again, 


58 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


old neighbor. Why, where have you been these 
twenty long years?” 

Rip’s story was soon told, for the whole twenty 
long years had been to him but as one night. The 
neighbors stared when they heard it; some were 
seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues 
in their cheeks: and the self-important man in the 
cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had 
returned to the field, screwed down the corners 
of his mouth, and shook his head—upon which 
there was a general shaking of the head through¬ 
out the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opin¬ 
ion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen 
slowly advancing up the road. He was a descend¬ 
ant of the historian of that name, who wrote 
one of the earliest accounts of the province. 
Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the 
village, and well versed in all the wonderful 
events and traditions of the neighborhood. He 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


59 


recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his 
story in the most satisfactory manner. He 
assured the company that it was a fact, handed 
down from his ancestor the historian, that the 
Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by 
strange beings. That it was affirmed that the 
great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of 
the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there 
every twenty years, with his crew of the Half¬ 
moon; being permitted in this way to revisit the 
scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye 
upon the river, and the great city called by his 
name. That his father had once seen them in 
their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in a 
hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had 
heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their 
balls, like distant peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company 
broke up, and returned to the more important 
concerns of the election. Rip’s daughter took 


60 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


him home to live with her; she had a snug, well- 
furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a 
husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the 
urchins that used to climb upon his back. As 
to Rip’s son and heir, who was the ditto of him¬ 
self, seen leaning against the tree, he was 
employed to work on the farm; but evinced an 
hereditary disposition to attend to anything else 
but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; 
he soon found many of his former cronies, though 
all rather the worse for the wear and tear of 
time; and preferred making friends among the 
rising generation, with whom he soon grew into 
great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being 
arrived at that happy age when a man can be 
idle with impunity, he took his place once more 
on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced 
as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a 
chronicle of the old times “before the war.” It 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


61 


was some time before he could get into the regu¬ 
lar track of gossip, or could be made to compre¬ 
hend the strange events that had taken place 
during his torpor. How that there had been a 
re volutionary war—that the country had thrown 
off the yoke of old England—and that, instead of 
being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, 
he was now a free citizen of the United States, 
Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of 
states and empires made but little impression on 
him; but there was one species of despotism 
under which he had long groaned, and that was— 
petticoat government. Happily that was at an 
end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matri¬ 
mony, and could go in and out whenever he 
pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame 
Van Winkle. Whenever her name was men¬ 
tioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his 
shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might 
pass either for an expression of resignation to his 
fate, or joy at his deliverance. 


62 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


He used to tell his story to every stranger that 
arrived at Mr. Doolittle’s hotel. He was ob¬ 
served, at first, to vary on some points every 
time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to 
his having so recently awaked. It at last settled 
down precisely to the tale I have related, and not 
a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood, but 
knew it by heart. Some always pretended to 
doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had 
been out of his head, and that this was one point 
on which he always remained flighty. The old 
Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally 
gave it full credit. Even to this day they never 
hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon 
about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick 
Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine¬ 
pins; and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked 
husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs 
heavy on their hands, that they might have a 
quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle’s flagon. 



THE STORY 


I 






























































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NOTE 


The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had 
been suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little 
German superstition about the Emperor Fred¬ 
erick der Rothbart and the Kypphaiiser moun¬ 
tain: the subjoined note, however, which he had 
appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute 
fact, narrated with his usual fidelity: 

“The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem in¬ 
credible to many, but nevertheless I give it my 
full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old 
Dutch settlements to have been very subject to 
marvellous events and appearances. Indeed, I 
have heard many stranger stories than this, in 
the villages along the Hudson; all of which were 
too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I 
have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, 
who, when I last saw him, was a very venerable 
old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent 

5 65 


66 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


on every other point, that I think no conscien¬ 
tious person could refuse to take this into the 
bargain; nay, I have seen a certificate on the 
subject taken before a country justice and signed 
with a cross, in the justice’s own handwriting. 
The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility 
of doubt. 


D. K.” 



POSTSCRIPT 


The following are travelling notes from a 
memorandum-book of Mr. Knickerbocker: 

The Kaatsberg, or Catskill mountains, have 
always been a region full of fable. The Indians 
considered them the abode of spirits, who influ¬ 
enced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds 
over the landscape, and sending good or bad 
hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old 
squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt 
on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had 
charge of the doors of day and night, to open 
and shut them at the proper hour. She hung up 
the new moons in the skies, and cut up the old 
ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly 
propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds 
out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them 
off from the crest of the mountain, flake after 
flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the 

67 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


air; until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they 
would fall in gentle showers, causing the grass to 
spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow 
an inch an hour. If displeased, however, she 
would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the 
midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the 
midst of its web; and when these clouds broke, 
woe betide the valleys! 

In old times, say the Indian traditions, there 
was a kind of Manitou or Spirit, who kept about 
the wildest recesses of the Catskill mountains, 
and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all 
kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. 
Sometimes he would assume the form of a bear, a 
panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a 
weary chase through tangled forests and among 
ragged rocks; and then spring off with a loud 
ho! ho! leaving him aghast on the brink of a 
beetling precipice or raging torrent. 

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still 
shown. It is a great rock or cliff on the loneliest 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


69 


part of the mountains, and, from the flowering 
vines which clamber about it, and the wild 
flowers which abound in its neighborhood, is 
known by the name of the Garden Rock. Near 
the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the 
solitary bittern, with water-snakes basking in 
the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies which lie 
on the surface. This place was held in great awe 
by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter 
would not pursue his game within its precincts. 
Once upon a time, however, a hunter who had 
lost his way, penetrated to the Garden Rock, 
where he beheld a number of gourds placed in 
the crotches of trees. One of these he seized and 
made off with it, but in the hurry of his retreat 
he let it fall among the rocks, when a great 
stream gushed forth, which washed him away 
and swept him down precipices, where he was 
dashed to pieces, and the stream made its way 
to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the 
present day, being the identical stream known 
by the name of the Kaaters-kill. 








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